Cactus Rose 50M (October 2013)

“It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.”

Theodore Roosevelt

Over the past year and a half, I've developed a long term goal:  qualify for and finish Western States 100.  There is so much intrigue in this race:  the history and founding; that it is point-to-point; the myriad of terrain, altitude, and weather experiences; and the list goes on.  I've only recently become a more patient person, but my Western States goal could not be contained.  So, with less than a dozen ultras to my name, I set the goal and charted the course:  Western States 100 in 2014 with a qualifier at Cactus Rose 50M in 2013.  I chose a training plan and, in May, began to train.  It was both liberating and humbling to follow this training plan, and I stuck with it throughout.  I missed zero runs and only, maybe, a half dozen times had to cut my mileage by a few.  As Ben put it, "you were an animal."

Race day is the variable factor in the equation, however.  All of the training, tracking, planning, and praying in the world cannot control the weather, the poor way a meal the day prior decides to sit in your stomach, or the errant rock a few miles--or many miles--into the race.  Race day is where everything comes together and everything is tested.  If you pass, you meet your goal.  If you fail, it's time to stop, pick up the pieces, and reevaluate the equation and numbers you put together.

This was my third fifty mile race at Cactus Rose.  It has become the anchor of my running year and I look forward to it with a certain giddiness and respect for most of the year.  This year was no different; with the addition of a very specific goal as well, the stakes were that much more dynamic. 

With this familiarity with the race and the course, my hectic week paired with addressing a random bout of strep throat didn't peak my race-related anxieties as they would have in years past.  In fact, my week-of preparations were haphazard and nonchalant:  pick up some snack bars here, some Diet Dr. Pepper there, pack a few things on Wednesday, throw some equipment in a corner later in the evening. I finally dedicated a few hours on Thursday night to pulling everything together, cross-checking prior year's lists and plans, and making sure everything was ready to go.  Thankfully, this being my third year also meant my strategy was rather dialed in:  drop bags of around 1,000 calories, 2-4 cans of Diet Dr. Pepper, blister and Advil kits, and extra shirts and socks here and there.  With a few things to handle at work on Friday done, we were on the road around midday.

The drive was much more fun than the anxiety-ridden, solo drive last year.  Ben had yet to move to Houston, so we met that weekend in Bandera.  After the race, he made the permanent move to Houston with me, ending our short bout of a long distance relationship.  We were able to chat about random things, joke around, and people watch in the cars driving with us.  We even saw a small, personal helicopter being towed somewhere outside of Seguin!  As my Dad flew helicopters, and because it's not often you see a helicopter on the freeway, I took it as a sign that my daddy would be with us during the race.  It was a nice feeling.

We stopped in Helotes for our final meal before race day:  the always safe, Subway.  I probably should have asked for less mustard and no jalapeños, but that's a lesson I probably will never and don't care to learn.  After our oddly-long stop at Subway, we were back on the road for the final stretch into Bandera and the Hill Country State Natural Area for packet pick-up and relaxing into as much sleep as we could get in the car.  

Even by this time, my nervousness had yet to materialize.  I suspect this was a factor of my training.  Over the last six months, I have had probably half a dozen 18-milers on Monday mornings followed by 12-14 mile runs on Tuesdays, all wrapped up with 16-20 milers on the weekend.  This training made me confident my body was ready for the beating of the Cactus Rose course.  My anxiety in previous years was driven by the "can I do this?" factor due to a complete lack of any training plan.

At the same time, this was the first race with a specific goal attached to it:  qualify for Western States 100.  This would require a finish under 11 hours, which is an hour and a half faster than last year and comes in around a 13:00 average pace.  The terrain at Cactus Rose is, in a word, brutal.  Large rocks, steep and long climbs, and little coverage from the sun and elements.  I adore it, but could I tame into 11 hours over fifty miles?  Only time would tell on race day.

Last year the weather was cold, blustery, and incredibly windy.  I wore long pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and an extra pullover.  It wasn't until around mile 35 or 40, if I remember correctly, that I shed the pullover.  The temperatures simply didn't get much warmer than that.  

This year, the start line was windy but hovered in the mid-60s as early as 3 a.m.  This necessarily required that I pay closer attention to hydration.  The sun will burn off any cloud cover and you will sweat much more than last year.  Do not forget to drink enough water.  

Finally, we lined up to start.  This year Ben began his team's relay as its first runner.  Before the race started, I turned to him, as we hadn't discussed it yet, and said, "Today, we're running our own race.  I'll see you later this morning.  Have fun."  With that, I plugged in my music, did some "dynamic" stretching after realizing I hadn't stretched at all, and zoned in to focus on fifty miles, eleven hours, and moving forward.  

The start of the race was typical:  single-file with some passing here and there.  Little chatter.  I knew from past experience it would thin out shortly, and definitely after the pass through the first aid station.  The first five miles of the race is a complete mystery to me.  I can't see anything outside of what my headlamp illuminates, and I usually focus on the foot steps in front of me to rely on when to shift, turn, climb, walk, and haul.  Soon enough, we fell into Equestrian for the first aid station.  I quickly found our drop bag, shotgunned a Diet Dr. Pepper, and left.  Eleven hours requires aid station efficiency.  

At this point, I began to worry about my GI.  My bout of strep throat required a ten-day antibiotic treatment that promised and delivered unpredictable GI upsets.  To be frank, it has been a miserable ten days on this medicine.  Race day was the final day of treatment, so the medicine--at least two pills over the course of the planned race--would be in my system.  With such heavy physical activity and blood diverted from digestive systems, I had no idea how my GI would react.  I hadn't had as "productive" a pre-race trip to the bathroom as usual, so the anxiety simply heightened.  

As I filed out of Equestrian and onward to the second five miles, which promised plenty of open running and time banking, I refocused my mental game.  The rule I've imposed on myself in my prior races this year has been, "If it's runnable, you'd better be running!"  This race was no different:  flats and descents were runnable, with little exception.  Ascents were power hiking and hydration time.  That was the plan, and I stuck to it…at least through mile 45.  More on that in a bit.

During the five miles to Nachos, I daydreamed about one of my favorite parts of the race:  sunrise on Ice Cream Hill and the later summits.  The view of the Texas Hill Country from these vantage points is unmatched and at sunrise is breathtaking.  I decided my short term goal would be to get into the later summits in time for the 7:30 a.m. sunrise.  I kept on trucking, making sure to keep an eye out for confidence markers and trail arrows.  By this time, the field had thinned and, in contrast to the past two years, I found myself quite alone.  I couldn't rely on the shoes in front of me and had to be certain I was on track.  A missed turn could prove catastrophic to my time goal.  At the same time, it was peaceful, definitely something I've been needing in the past couple of months.

With little warning, I found myself dropping into Nachos to some respectfully quiet applause and "way to go runner!" cheers.  I wasn't expecting it as Nachos is traditionally a quiet aid station and largely is abandoned by spectators and crews.  It was a great early boost and I appreciated it quite a bit.  I decided to refuel only with another gulp of Diet Dr. Pepper, mostly because I wasn't sure how my stomach would be reacting over the next ten miles with the caffeine.  I did not want to add food to the mix quite yet.  Risky?  Yes.  At best, I hoped the caffeine would move the systems into gear, so to speak.  My Diet Dr. Pepper pop-tab didn't do its job, though, and I was left with a detached tab and an unopened can.  I grabbed the nearest pen on the table and stabbed the top of the can until a hole formed.  Without even inspecting it for sharp edges, I went through another round of shotgunning to some laughs and amused claps.  "I'm your everyday MacGuyver," I responded.  I hauled off into the darkness for the third leg of the first loop:  back to Equestrian.  

This part of the course is where some mild ascents begin.  It is a taste of what is to come in miles fifteen through thirty five.  I reminded myself of my short term goal of ascending some later summits in time for sunrise and kept at it.  Ascents?  Power hike.  Descents and flats?  Kick up some dust, lady, and haul for a ways.  I reminded myself that these stretches of running were my usual.  In training, I don't incorporate walk breaks.  In fact, I can't remember the last time I walked during a training run.  In all aspects of training, I push and I push hard.  That way, race day feels more comfortable when things turn rougher.  I reminded myself of this when the small voice in my head asked, "Are you sure you can run for this long straight?!"  My response:  "Yes, this is a piece of cake.  Go away."  The voice subsided.

Miles ten through fifteen were unremarkable, save for the lackluster sunrise.  The cloud cover prevented me from seeing the beautiful pinks, oranges, and yellows I dream about when thinking of this race.  I was also disappointed I didn't find Brian K. at the top of Ice Cream Hill for some sunrise photography.  I didn't realize he was one of the masses scrambling around the hills that morning with me.

These miles were also the introduction to this year's crop of sotol cactus.  Sotol resemble aloe vera in their triangle and tipped leaves that shoot out directly from the root.  A long stem with red buds rises from the center of the plant.  The green leaves are lined with small razor teeth.  There are sotol enough along the Cactus Rose course to cover the entire pathway.  More than enough, in fact.  The only strategy is to wear pants and run straight through, arms up to at least avoid some scrapes on your upper body.  Strange or not, I don't mind the sotol.  In the later miles of this race, it is a welcome distraction from how much the soles of my feet hurt from the rocks.  

Soon enough, I dropped into Equestrian for a second time.  Again:  quick in and out at the aid station.  Chugged a Diet Dr. Pepper through some chokes.  Grabbed a peanut butter cookie Lara bar.  Stashed my now-unnecessary headlamp.  Checked my pace chart and realized I'd banked twenty minutes.  Off I trotted to the monstrous middle miles.  In my head one could hear:  "Let's do this.  This is where you shine.  Climb.  Run.  Get what's yours.  Get.  What's.  Yours."

Solid and steady through the fourth leg of the first loop.  Throughout, I kept remarking to myself how I'd forgotten how much of this course actually is very runnable.  The hills also weren't as intimidating as my memory made them about to be.  I was happy at this realization, as I knew it could be a boon for my time goal.  I focused more on my foot falls, aiming to avoid stubbed toes, trips, or the like.  I didn't have time for injuries.  I did notice my legs were dripping with some blood from the sotol scratches, and I'd received a few others on my arms, but they didn't bother me much.  

The ascents coming out of Equestrian and toward Boyles progress in difficulty.  After a warm-up hike, you tackle the Three Sisters:  an ascent up and three "bumps" at the top with a descent toward Sky Island.  Sky Island is the longest and seemingly steepest ascent of the course with a brief reprieve at the summit and a descent drop before climbing into Boyles.  I simply kept my focus and kept running when runnable and power hiking the ascents.  Thankfully my hesitancy on the descents was beginning to dissipate.  Having no hills in Houston, my experience with downhill running has been seriously lacking.  

Boyles came up rather quickly and unexpectedly, which is always a great experience in any long distance trail run.  I powered up the short ascent into the aid station and got to work.  I could sense my heart rate was fairly elevated, so I decided against more Diet Dr. Pepper and just drank some water.    We had to replace the bladder in my CamelBak before the race, but I had forgotten to run some warm water through the tubing.  The first gulp had a distinct plastic taste.  After signing in, and realizing I'd lost ten of my twenty banked minutes, I picked up my clip for the second quarter of the monstrous middle miles.  Moving toward the start finish is a good feeling:  running toward the halfway point and an opportunity to refresh the mind.  

This portion of the monstrous middle is somewhat innocuous.  One fairly steep ascent coming out of the aid station with a jaunt across a technical summit, an equally long descent, and right back up Cairnes Climb before dropping down into the Lodge.  

I was feeling great at this point.  I was awake, alert, and moving swiftly.  The soles of my feet were beginning to feel tender, but that was to be expected given the terrain.  I began thinking about my plan at the turn around:  what do I want?  Ice cold water.  What do I need?  Food and Advil.  Any other items to do?  Probably try to use the bathroom.

I kept a steady pace and, soon enough, the trails were becoming all descents and flats, signaling the final push into the Lodge.  I eventually hooked up with Brian K., at which point it became clear why he wasn't photographing folks at the top of Ice Cream Hill.  It was great to run with him again and catch up.  Before I knew it, we were already at the loop split, which meant we were about a third to half a mile from the start/finish.  Our pace picked up noticeably.  We both were ready to get back out and into the second half.   I quickly stopped at the bathroom and hauled into the turn around.  

As I came into the Lodge at five hours and ten minutes flat, I heard whoops and my name called out:  Misha, Kelsey, Alex, and Ben were waiting for me as I came in.  Hearing the cheers is always so uplifting and, frankly, makes me feel like a rockstar.  There's nothing quite like it.  I beelined for the water jugs, but found no cups.  I saw small skull buckets, grabbed one, and began filling, chugging, and refilling.  I drank too quickly and began to cough, but the effect of ice water was rejuvenating.  The heat was unbearable and I was sweating more than I thought was possible this time of the year.  The temperatures must have been nearing the 80s, I would put money on it.  After feeling content with some water in my belly, I found my drop bag.  I took my antibiotic, two Advils, a chug of Diet Dr. Pepper, and left with a peanut butter Lara bar.  I'd estimate this all happened in 2-3 minutes.  Again, aid station efficiency had the potential to save me important minutes in the long term.

Starting on the second and final loop is always a game changer.  There no longer is the looming question:  am I going to start the second loop?  Or am I going to talk myself into calling it a day at one loop?  The mind is a funny beast.  Thankfully my speed at the Lodge aid station prevented me from even thinking about the question for too long.  As I crossed the mat one more time, I was again focused on the next ten miles, the final ten of the monstrous middle.  I did the math and realized I had just over five and a half hours to finish in eleven.  I could do that, I told myself.  It certainly would be close, but I could do it.

After I finished my Lara bar, I picked up into a trot.  I immediately wished I'd asked for my Saucony Kinvaras, the road shoes I use for training runs.  They have the same heel drop as my 101s and are a similar light weight, but they have more cushion.  My feet were screaming.  I told myself I'd relay this message to whoever might be waiting for me at Boyles and plan on changing shoes at the first Equestrian stop on the loop.  Just keep after it, I told myself.  Time will get you into your new shoes.

Miles twenty five through thirty were unremarkable, as far as I can recall.  I believe my strategy was to zone out and knock them out, saving my mental game for miles thirty through thirty five, the hardest five of the loop from a technical perspective.  Saving mental fortitude is important in long and rough races like Cactus.  You never know when you'll need it so, if you can bank it away for later, do it.

These miles were quick and smooth and I quickly found myself upon Boyles.  Misha and Kelsey were waiting for me.  I'd already decided what I needed to do at Boyles:  refill water and keep moving.  Just get those last five of the monstrous middle done, then focus on opening it up on the back fifteen.  Ben wasn't at Boyles, so I asked Misha to relay the Kinvara message to him.  After sucking down some water straight from the tap and refilling my CamelBak, I hightailed it out of there.  I wanted to destroy these five and get on with it all.  I was also anxious to check my pace chart at Equestrian.

The ascents and descents were tougher this time.  I did enjoy the descents more this year, though, as I was more comfortable than earlier in the race and they were an opportunity to pick up some time lost on the ascents.  As I finished the peak after Three Sisters, I could sense Equestrian coming closer as there were more non-runner faces on the trails and whatnot:  a good sign of an aid station near as crews begin to venture out on the search for their runner.  

I dropped into Equestrian strong and with a good pace, again to friendly cheers and whoops.  I signed in and stooped down to clean out my shoes.  I'd accumulated a dozen or so of the razor sharp pricks from the sotol cactus, as well as a few pebbles and some sand.  If I didn't address them now, they could become more like boulders and knives in my socks later.  Before I could get my right shoe back on, Ben called out to me and handed me my Kinvaras.  I'd completely forgotten about them.  I quickly slipped them on and sought out my drop bag.  I asked Ben to fill my Camelbak with some ice (would be wonderful on my back) and mostly water.  I was looking forward to the long supply of ice cold water as the sun beat down from overhead.  I had some Diet Dr. Pepper and picked up another Lara bar, which I would later discover was "Pecan Pie" flavored.  It was yummier than I remembered, so it was a pleasant mistake.  

As I left the aid station munching on my snack, I realized how perfect of a decision it was to change shoes at this juncture.  The Kinvaras were like running on clouds.  I took stock:  You've got a new set of shoes, cleaned out socks, some caffeine, a pie, and some more confidence and morale boosts from your fiancé and friends.  Let's knock out some miles!  These five miles, quite possibly, were the strongest of the day both physically and mentally.  I was zoned and zeroed in and nothing could stop me.  Another runner I'd been playing cat and mouse with called out to me as I zoomed past:  You're an animal!  I thought to myself, "hell yeah, I am!" as I hurtled down some quick hills.  Not to belabor the point, but this was phenomenal running, not even to speak of the fact that these were miles thirty five to forty.  I'll forever be proud of those five miles.  

The focus disallowed any other thoughts whatsoever.  None of the niggling thoughts of whether I'd meet my goal, whether I should even try, whether I'd finish the race, whether I'd severely roll an ankle or hyperextend a knee.  None of that.  Just running.  Before I could blink the dust out of my eyes, or so it seemed, I was approaching Nachos.  At this point last year, I was struggling.  Ben knew to keep his mouth shut and let me get in and out as quickly as possible.  This year, the pit stop was seamless.  He refilled my CamelBak while I drank more caffeine and found a peanut butter and jelly Lara bar.  I wanted something sweeter and more uplifting than peanut butter or pecan pie.  It was a good choice.

Unfortunately, these miles saw the start of my mental resolve breaking down.  As my time dwindled to under two hours for the final ten miles, I began to do the math.  I would have to rock a solid 10:00 mile for the final miles and, quite frankly, I didn't think I had it in me.  Remember, what you think in an ultra controls how the ultra goes.  An honest look at my physical state tells a different story:  I absolutely could have done it.  That's not to say the pace wouldn't be difficult and wouldn't hurt, but I could have done it.  

All of that being said, I kept a decent clip during miles forty through forty five.  By decent I mean I was moving as best I could.  My quads were blown from the increasingly aggressive takes on the descents.  My hamstrings?  They'd gone home long ago…caught a cab and never looked back.  It was just me, my calves, and my feet.  And like I said, my mental game was trickling to a halt.  

Since I run this portion of the course only in the dark at the start, I don't have much idea of what it all looks like:  how many road crossings?  How many stair steps down?  How many power lines and fence lines?  I have no clue.  It's a mystery renewed every year.  I still don't recall how many road crossings, but there were far too many power lines and fence lines.  The worst kind of fence line too:  in a wide open field where you can see the runners ahead of you and how far they are from the aid station, and how much further you are from the aid station.  The land just stretches out for what feel like days in front of you.  I just wanted to be in at Equestrian, drop my Camelbak, and haul in to the finish.  But I couldn't get it together.  I kept glancing at my watch, seeing the remaining minutes flit away into the past, gone as a resource of confidence.

After the final fence line and road crossing, I could sense Equestrian was close and my pace increased.  This turned out to be a key component of my finish, but I'll get to that in a moment.

I flew in to the aid station, saw Ben sign me in, and unbuckled my CamelBak.  It fell with a thud to the ground:  "I'm dropping this here."  I glanced at my watch:  10:10.  Fifty minutes left in the bank.  I asked Ben how many miles I had left:  4.9 miles.  

What came next was unfortunate and did not bode well for the remaining miles.  I hurled the f-bomb across the length of the tent and nearly threw my wonderfully ice cold Diet Dr. Pepper into the nearby lot of cars.  I wanted to hurt something as much as my spirit had been crushed.  Four point nine miles with fifty minutes required a constant 10:00 mile, and I knew there were two ridiculous ascents in the middle at some point.  Not to mention my screaming feet and already hobbling mental focus.  

I didn't give Ben an opportunity to say anything.  I simply told him, "I'll see you there."  I angrily ambled off and spent a good two or three minutes walking and gulping my drink.  I didn't care that I'd have to hold the empty can for the next hour.  Whatever.  I was angry.  I was sad.  I gave up.  To be certain, I walked quickly…but I walked.  I broke my rule and failed to run all runnable sections.  I would try to run only to stop a few minutes later.  "What's the point?," I asked myself.  "I'm not going to get 11:00, but I'll certainly finish, so who cares?  Just take your time and feel sorry for yourself.  It will be fantastic.  "

I don't know who this person was and I'm sure I'll be pondering those five miles for a while before anything becomes clear.  Perhaps I just spent all the mental fortitude I had.

At some point in this stretch, I heard some heavy breathing behind me.  I looked back and saw a young woman crawling up behind me.  Her bib indicated she was running the fifty as well.

Throughout the race I had an inkling that I may have been one of the female leaders.  I didn't see many coming back out for a second loop as I came in from my first.  I tried not to let this get to me over the course of the race, but I welled up big time when I saw her behind me.

A sudden thought flashed through my mind the moment I saw her:  "Do you want to place?  Because she will take it form you, without apology."  Out of nowhere, I suddenly began to crank out a pace I hadn't seen in hours.  It was a renewed energy and a new motivation.  Now, certainly, 11:00 had long since past.  I suppose I chose a new goal and went for it.  She seemed (and it turns out is) nice enough, but I wasn't going to let her take the last vestige of some sort of "success" from my day.  I kept running until I couldn't hear her behind me anymore, tossing glances over my shoulder for her, tackling the ascents and descents with reckless abandon and dogged resolve.  I kept checking my watch and figured I'd come in around 20 minutes past the hour.  I saw that time point draw closer and closer.  I kept running and running.  Soon the trail was all flat and something of a Jeep road.  I was close.  I heard clapping in the near background. Around three minutes later, there was the loop split:  half a mile to go.

I hurled myself around the curves and nodded wearily and knowingly to those heading out on their next loop.  One of them called out a congratulations to me.  Naturally, in the final two or three minutes, I analyzed the heck out of that comment rather than just letting it buoy me:  "Does he know that I'm one of the leaders?  Could I have speculated correctly about my place?"  Regardless, I kept running.  I didn't slow down for rocks or roots or grooves.  Why should I care?  I was almost done and not a race in sight until February.  I rocketed up the final gully before turning down the finishers shoot.  

I saw the finish clock, with an 11 in front, and my attitude turned sour again.  It showed in my face, too, but I kept running.  I glanced back and didn't see my chaser.  I crossed the mat and fell face first into Ben's arms.  A brief sob and full on hugs to cap the moment.  He knew the gravity of the finish and didn't say a word.  It wasn't time yet.  Too fresh.  

As I pulled away, a woman wrapped a medal around my neck and another handed me a small boot.  I'd placed fifth.  I'd placed.  The woman who spurned the final miles came in as Ben and I posed in front of the finish clock.  She congratulated me and seemed to marvel at how quickly I'd shot off when I saw her; she mentioned my entrance at Equestrian caught her off guard and motivated her to pull a solid finish in the final five.  In return, I thanked her for kicking me into high gear and was frank that I took off because I wanted to beat her to feel better about the day.  She took that comment graciously, laughing and congratulating me again.  Another note as to why the trail running community is good people.

For the rest of the evening, as the relay team dominated with a solid lead for a hundred miles, I vacillated between disappointment and realism.  I'd put in six solid months of ragingly difficult miles.  4:30 a.m. wake up calls, sometimes earlier.  Early nights to bed.  Many lonely miles, and many agitated miles with Ben.  Doubts and excitements.  Arrogance and humility.  The gamut, really.  And here, I felt like I'd blown it.  Everyone assured me I'd done my best, looked strong and bold, and not to beat myself up over it.  Regardless, I did the math on how much time per mile my twenty minutes really accounted for:  right around half a minute.  Half a minute.  

In my heart of hearts, I know it was an incredible day out there.  I did things I never thought I could and I ran a strong and steady race.  A fast one, too.  I have every reason to be proud of my performance, and I am proud.  

As the night wore on, I came to the realization that one amazing thing of the whole experience is that I'd tried.  A few years ago, the idea of trying would have been laughable.  And if I hadn't tried, I wouldn't have come close to succeeding.  I recognized the growth I've experienced in the past couple of years and tucked it away for a later pick-me-up.  More quickly than I'd anticipated, I began thinking about how I'd plan my next attempt to qualify for Western States.  This failure to qualify wasn't a one off.  The attempt wasn't an all-or-nothing.  It is a try, fail, try again.  Repeat as necessary, learning at every foot step.

Be all of this as it may, I'm allowing myself to be disappointed.  I'm allowing myself to scrutinize every decision of the day to see how I could have done differently.  I'm allowing myself to admit that I chose to give up in the final five minutes.  And that's okay.  It doesn't make me an absolute failure.  It means I have lessons to learn and, most importantly, want to learn them.  It means I'm early in my ultra running career.  It means I have some great moments to look forward to in the future.  It means I'm not hitting all of the high notes before things have a chance to get interesting.  I say bring it on.  

I want to highlight a few lessons, if only so I can reference them as necessary:

• Training hard will be an incredible advantage on race day.  My core was strong throughout and I never had lower back pain persistent in other races.  My legs were blown by the end, but I knew how to power through that and make running happen regardless.  My endurance was dialed and that is because I trained it to be so during the past six months.  Lesson:  follow a challenging training plan and enjoy a better, kinder race day.
• Listening to your gut will get you far.  Don't tax it unnecessarily but listen to its cues.  Drink water to thirst and listen to any cramping.  Give it what it craves; it is a good communicator.  
• Accept that things will go wrong.  Whether that be an unwanted interruption of focus at an aid station, a rolled ankle, a fall or unpleasant slam into a tree, something will go wrong.  Learn to fortify your mental game against how those experiences can break you down.
• Finally:  Failure is not the end; it is an opportunity to continue moving forward with more wisdom, experience, and knowledge.  The next attempt will be that much better.  Get after it.

I know there are more lessons, and they will come to me in the following days, but these speak loudest at the moment.

As always, Cactus Rose was an incredible experience.  I learned more than I ever anticipated and look forward to the next round.  For now?  I'm planning my next attempt to qualify for Western States.  Thank you for the kick in the pants, Bandera.  Until next time…

Cactus Rose 50M

11:19:14

Fifth Place Female Overall
23rd (out of 146)